


Blackout Day, Year 16, Miles

by BeaRyan



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Redemption, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, death of villains, implied attempted rape, not crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/pseuds/BeaRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year on Blackout Day he reenacted the scene, hoping the pieces wouldn't fall into place this time, but they always did.  One day, he hoped, Sergeant Matheson wouldn't have died in vain.  One day he hoped to leave the General at the roadside and bring back the Sargent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackout Day, Year 16, Miles

Miles threw a few items in his pack and left at dawn. Every year on Blackout Day he reenacted the scene, hoping the pieces wouldn't fall into place this time, but they always did. One day, he hoped, Sergeant Matheson wouldn't have died in vain. One day he hoped to leave the General at the roadside and bring back the Sergeant. 

For all his faults, Sergeant Matheson had been a pretty good guy. He had a failed marriage under his belt, six months that proved neither of them was good at compromise, but it had ended cleanly, no kids, no debt, no scars, and they were still on speaking terms when the lights went out. Sarge had checked up on her before he'd gone looking for his brother and family. 

Ben and the kids. Another plus for Sergeant Matheson. Sarge had been sober for three years when he died. Step 9, making amends, had been brutal, but he'd done it. The kids sent him pictures, smears and scribbles really, but he loved them because he loved the kids. Loved his brother. Had loved his brother's wife. Made amends. 

Miles found a crossroads and sat down to wait. Trouble would find him. It always did. He took a heavy pull on his bottle of whiskey, aged and smooth, the good stuff. Sarge deserved it even if he had quit drinking. 

The first wagon carried a farmer on his way to market with his family. The older children took up defensive positions around the vehicle and eyed him warily as they passed. The second encounter was a lone courier racing by at top speed. He didn't slow to look at Miles. Miles stared after him, considered what message might be so urgent on today of all days, and wondered if this vigil wasn't self-indulgent and dangerous. The third group, ten people on foot following the same path as the farmer, actually asked if he needed help. They told him about the town a mile ahead and its activities to commemorate Blackout Day. They told him about the dangers of sitting alone along the road. They told him about Jesus. He promised to listen to more about rebirth and renewal, about raising lost souls from the dead, if he was still there when they headed back home at the end of the day. 

Traffic flowed toward town and no one tried to kill him. By noon he almost felt hopeful. Almost. He had a sandwich and water for lunch. It felt normal. A kind of average and uneventful that didn't exist anymore. He didn't trust it. 

After lunch he climbed into a tree, observing the road below without being observed himself. The first years he hadn't perched; he had just been traveling. He hadn't been trying to recreate the death of Sergeant Matheson. He'd just wanted to get from A to B and he had handled whatever business presented itself along the way. He'd hear a scream or a gunshot and respond with more screams and more gunshots. 

Sergeant Matheson had died six weeks after the blackout. Sometime between Blackout Day and the anniversary of his death the scene always played out again. Six weeks without violence back then never happened. Sometimes it felt like they couldn't find six peaceful hours. When things had settled and the Republic was stable, Blackout Day had become a national day of mourning. A day off. A day to see if he could lay the General to rest. He never could. He kept up the ritual in Chicago, proving yearly that he was still needed and flogging himself for shirking his duty. 

The highwaymen arrived at mid-afternoon and got into position, ready to take advantage of travelers laden with goods and currency as they headed away from the village. Miles didn't like robbery, but it wasn't enough to leave the Sergeant in the grave. As the first group of travelers approached the ambush he knew he wouldn't have a chance to weigh non-intervention. 

The leader of the bandits held up his fingers, waiting until the prey was in position to begin counting down to the signal to attack. Four arrows flew at two targets and the male travelers dropped to the ground. The three women with them screamed, falling on their companions and trying to staunch the flow of blood. 

The bandits moved in. The leader had first pick of the women. He grabbed a young blond by the throat and dragged her towards the side of the road. That left two more women to share among the four other bandits. He tried to shut out the screams while he watched and waited for them all to get into positions for clean shots. A worthy if unwelcome recreation. 

When the youngest girl, younger even than Charlie, was pinned to the ground beside her dead friend he gave up the idea of clean and quick. He took the shots he could get, destroying three human vermin without leaving his perch, and dropped to the ground to finish it with his swords. 

When it was over the women were distraught but grateful. They wanted to thank him, to give him gifts. The General took the whiskey and left.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome. Advice is appreciated.  
> ***Apologies to all who read this with the spelling buffet in place. I think I have it worked out now. ***


End file.
